By the light of the candle Fidelma examined the blade of the knife and then she bent to the floor, motioning Eadulf to hold the light as low as he could. She drew in her breath sharply.
‘What is it?’ demanded Eadulf.
‘There seems to have been a great effusion of blood here. This was not caused by cutting meat at a meal. I believe someone was cut by a knife. . this knife.’ She gestured with the hand that held it.
A sudden sound in a dim recess of the refectory caused them to fall instantly quiet. It was like a low growling from the inner depths of the throat. Eadulf slowly turned his head into the darkness.
In a far corner of the room, the candlelight reflected against eyes that glowed like coals. He could barely make out the dark, round-shaped head. It was a silhouette only, the silhouette of a gargoyle.
The growl rose in volume.
Eadulf leant back unobtrusively against one of the tables, his free hand searching blindly for some weapon, for he knew he must not take his gaze from the menacing dark shape with its hell-like glowing eyes. It seemed to be crouching in the corner watching their every move. He could see by the movement of the dark shape that the creature, whatever it was, was gathering to spring. He felt, rather than saw, that Fidelma was trying to hold herself perfectly still. His scrabbling fingers found a metal plate and he picked it up from the table, balancing it in his hand like a discus.
It was at that precise moment that the creature sprang forward, with a terrible scream, directly towards Fidelma’s head.
‘Down!’ shouted Eadulf as he twisted round and let fly with the metal plate. It was almost a perfect discus cast. It impacted with the creature in mid-air. There was a terrible screeching cry, worse than its first scream, and it seemed to perform a twisting motion, changing its direction even in mid-spring.
In the grey light from the window, to which the creature now bounded, they had a momentary vision of a giant cat. It had black and yellowish-grey stripes in a brindle pattern, and was well over a metre in length. It leapt for the sill, paused, and then, with another snarling scream, the creature was through the window and away.
Eadulf set down his candle and turned to Fidelma. She was leaning back against the table, trembling slightly.
‘What was that?’ she demanded, trying to recover her poise.
‘A wild cat.’ Eadulf’s voice was filled with relief. ‘It’s rare that they attack people. They usually live on rabbits, hares and small rodents. It must have thought that it was trapped.’
Fidelma shook her head in disbelief. ‘But the size of it. . I’ve known cats go wild, but. .’
Eadulf smiled a little patronisingly, realising he possessed knowledge that Fidelma did not.
‘That was not a domestic cat gone wild. These cats are another breed, larger and more dangerous if cornered. It is rare that they venture out of the forests. They hunt rather than scavenge. Do you not have them in the five kingdoms?’
She shook her head. ‘Feral cats, yes, but not such beasts as that.’
‘It probably came in here after rodents. There are plenty about,’ Eadulf said, almost cheerful now.
Against threats of a tangible nature, Eadulf was fearless. Against anything that smacked of the supernatural, he was as apprehensive as a small child. Fidelma was smiling inwardly. It was almost the reverse with her. What was it that her mentor, the Brehon Morann, used to say? Nature is a strange architect.
‘Let us hope that we do not encounter any more such creatures,’ she observed, turning back to the task in hand. ‘Bring the candle again, Eadulf.’
Once more she bent down to the dried bloodstains. ‘I am sure that someone was stabbed with this knife and bled profusely here.’
She gestured to Eadulf to keep the candle low to the floor. Then she gave a little intake of breath, denoting satisfaction.
‘A trail of blood spots. Let’s see where this will lead us.’
They followed the occasional blood spot from the refectory. It was not easy, for the spots were few and far between, and in one place it took Fidelma some fifteen minutes of searching before she could find the next spot and thus pick up the elusive trail.
Eventually, they found themselves in the gloomy chapel.
‘I think the trail takes us to that sarcophagus.’ Fidelma paused at the door. The light was gloomy. The sarcophagus was a stone affair standing in the central aisle of the chapel before the high altar. It was an elegant structure made from a blue-grey coarse-grain rock. They could see as much from Eadulf’s raised candle. It was constructed as a long, coffin-shaped affair and raised about a metre above the paved floor of the chapel, with tiny columns at its head and feet. On it was an inscription in Latin: Hic Iacit Paternus.
‘The tomb of the Blessed Padern, founder of this community,’ muttered Fidelma. ‘There are certainly some blood spots here.’ She pointed to the surface of the tomb.
Eadulf saw that it was true. Splashes of blood were visible on the stone slabs and against the side of the structure. He looked inquiringly at Fidelma.
‘I suppose we must look inside?’ He inflected the sentence to make it sound like a question.
Fidelma did not deign to answer. She was examining the lid of the sarcophagus. ‘I think it was constructed to swing back,’ she told him. ‘Do you see where the stone is worn smooth?’
Eadulf nodded reluctantly. He set his candle aside and reached forward with both hands to test the strength of its resistance to his weight. To his astonishment, the lid of the sarcophagus moved easily. He glanced up in satisfaction.
Fidelma nodded quickly.
Eadulf pushed again and the stone swung effortlessly aside.
A smell of decay came immediately to his nostrils. He actually found it less unpleasant than the harsh odours of the decomposing food in the refectory.
Fidelma had moved to the side of the sarcophagus and was peering into the tomb. Eadulf, more nervously, joined her in examining the contents.
Sprawled on the remains of a crumbling skeleton and decayed winding sheet lay a new corpse. A corpse that appeared to have been unceremoniously dumped inside, without ritual, without even the customary shroud. It was the body of a man who, by the state of decomposition, could only have been dead a day or two at the most. He lay on his back, and the dark stains across his chest showed how he had come by his death. He had been stabbed several times.
Eadulf was startled. ‘This is no religious,’ he observed, stating the obvious.
The body was that of a short muscular man with full beard, dark and swarthy and physically unlike any Briton that Fidelma had ever seen. His clothes consisted of a sleeveless leather jerkin, and leather-patched pants which were rolled up to the knees. His legs and feet were bare. He wore bronze and copper bracelets on which were curious patterns and a neckpiece with a symbol like a lightning stroke. Around his waist was a belt from which hung an empty sword scabbard.
Eadulf let out an uncharacteristic whistle.
Fidelma regarded him with faint surprise. Not only was the whistle uncharacteristic but it was not often that Eadulf departed from deferential behaviour in a church.
‘Does the body mean anything to you?’ she asked quickly.
‘Hwicce.’
Fidelma looked bewildered.
‘The symbols on his bracelets indicate he is a warrior of the Hwicce,’ explained Eadulf, pointing.
‘That information leaves me none the wiser, Eadulf. Who-ekka?’ Fidelma tried to pronounce the phonetics.
‘The Hwicce comprise a sub-kingdom of Mercia which borders on the kingdoms of the Britons called Gwent and Dumnonia. The Hwicce are a mixture of Angles and Saxons, a fierce warrior people not yet converted to the true faith, and ruled by their own kings. I last heard that Eanfrith was their ruler. They supported the pagan king of Mercia, Penda, when he was alive. He had no time for Christian virtues.’